


No One Else Will Save You

by Asiil



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M, PWP, Top!Cas, bottom!Dean
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-07
Updated: 2013-02-07
Packaged: 2017-11-28 12:09:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,975
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/674249
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Asiil/pseuds/Asiil
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes to reach Cas you have to go through Castiel first. Dean is more than willing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	No One Else Will Save You

It's obvious the moment the angel appears in the room. It's not merely quiet in the way Cas normally appears, popping up just beside the hunter, a flicker of amusement sliding across his lips as Dean growls at him to knock or  _"Wear a fucking bell!"_  or something.

Its dead silent, the lack of noise and sound and movement erupting into the tiny space with such fury and pervasive intensity that every hair on the back of the hunter's neck prickles, ancient instinct sparking in him the need to fight or flee.

Instead he remains still, frozen in his place on the couch for a split second before moving the bottle in his hands back to his lips, draining the tinted glass of its last sip before setting it on the table in front of him. Every motion is slow and controlled. Precise and open to the pair of endless blue eyes that are without a doubt following every shift in muscle, every contoured bend of light over his skin as if looking for a weapon, every ripple of movement that could mark him as either friend or foe.

Dean collects the clicker from somewhere in the space beside him, holding it out to turn off the dull sound of the TV, though the angel's arrival has long since rendered its noise mute in comparison to his roaring silence. Once off even the distant hum of the old powering down machine can not scratch at the surface of the creature Dean is turning to face.

He is light and shadow both. Dead calm and molten intensity. His eyes are dark and dull, focused in a way so inhuman the hunter feels as though he's being pulled to pieces beneath his gaze. Picked apart by measureless blue. Torn in every direction all at once till he's lain bare, stripped of flesh and muscle and bone, exposed to the very core and ripped open at his soul.

They've both had long days. But Dean knows this time, Castiel's has been far longer.

Without a word, he pulls the supple leather jacket from his shoulders, dropping it with a distant thud on the couch. Green eyes never leaving those of the angel in front of him, pinning his gaze, pressing back with unspoken intensity that would have had anyone else shifting uncomfortably beneath such scrutiny. But this isn't just anyone else. This isn't Cas, the slightly oblivious, socially awkward friend, or even the attentive, ardent, and often playful lover he'd come to know over the past few months.

This is Castiel, Angel of the Lord, Soldier of Heaven, General in a war that will take more, ask more, require more than he's ever given before.

Dean's gaze finally flickers over his appearance. His coat is flecked with drying blood, the dark brown stains eating their way into the lighter fabric, marking him, branding him with deeds and actions. They're splattered over the white of his shirt, brighter on the collar, vibrant and alive, an oxymoronic statement of death with their vividness. Soot dusts his arms, smudged patterns of feathers blackened over the edges, testament to the same death, a moving gravestone of names etched in burned graceful lines like tattoos over skin. Permanent even after you've washed.

One, two, three steps and Dean is stopping, standing within arm's reach of the angel, quiet and unmoving. Waiting even as the silence rose to a deafening roar.

Then it's breaking, crumbling and shattering as Castiel reaches out and spins them, pressing Dean back against the wall so fast and hard his head cracks against the plaster. But there is no time to worry about the flickering shock of momentary pain, not when the angel's fingers are gripping tight in the fabric of his shirt and the short strands of his hair, pinning him back as teeth and lips and tongue come down over his mouth, invading it in the angel's search for life, greedy motions seeking out breath and reality.

And if Dean moans into it, the sound lodging somewhere in both their throats, there is no judgement, no hissed accusations of preference or desire. There's only a tightening of fingers as Castiel tips his head further up, opening his mouth to a demanding tongue, drawing one against the other in a furious dance of want and  _need_. Of give and _take_. A desperate search for a grounding touch.

The hunter shifts beneath the onslaught, parting his legs as the angel moves one lean thigh between them, pressing and grinding up against the heavy weight of his growing erection. Hands loosen their hold as if their owner has finally been convinced that Dean isn't going to run, isn't going to slip from his grasp. They are gentler but not tender, moving from his hair to push and pull away the remaining two shirts, leaving the hunter bare-chested, the wall cold against the warm skin of his back. His own hands are fisted in the fabric of Castiel's coat, pulling it away with equivalent intent, giving as good as he gets till the material is pooling on the floor, stained shirt open, blue tie askew. Then they are moving again, legs hoisted up and around slim hips, catching over lithe muscle and angled bone as Castiel steps back, never once taking his mouth from Dean's.

A thousand steps. A million moments of fingers scraping down over the skin of the angel's back. A hundred breaths gasped and panted before the hunter is falling, dropped and flipped to land on hands and knees on the creaky motel mattress. He drags air into abused lungs, sucking it down like water after a drought, lips parted, red and kiss swollen.

He can still feel the angel behind him, moaning again as Castiel takes the opportunity to rock his hips forward, dragging the hard line of his cock against the similarly clothed curve of the hunter's ass, fingers gripping tightly over his hips. Dean spreads his legs wider, shifting his knees open even though the jeans prevent any real view, and grinds back against the angel, pulling on the reigns of control as only he can.

A dark growl rumbles up from the angel's chest, deep and possessive, washing over Dean like fingers and seeking tongues, dragging heat straight to the very center of him and pooling there; liquid in its molten intensity. Before he can so much as repeat the action that drew such a response from Castiel, his jeans are gone, zapped away along with his boxers and the remainder of the angel's clothing as well if the searing press of flesh on flesh now is anything to go by.

There's no warning, but the hunter needs none, he knows its coming even as the first finger slides into him, slick with lube procured from somewhere, anywhere, because while the angel's touch might not be tender, its gentle.

This isn't about hurting.

It's about giving and taking. About finding life and pleasure and _feeling_  amid a world of death and pain and emptiness.

A second finger and Dean shifts back against it, wanting more, needing more, offering everything and demanding just as much. Castiel wastes no time in stroking him, crooking his fingers, seeking out that spot the angel already knows will have the hunter writhing beneath him. Because  _that_  is real. Base and fundamental. Vital in its shocking display of life, of being.

Dean knows this is all part of a process... about giving Cas a road to follow back to him... back to what they're fighting for, rather than a display of what they're caught in the middle of.

The hunter's back bows when the third finger finally hits home, knuckles buried deep as a shiver runs up his spine, sizzling out over every nerve ending like flashes of color behind his eyes. He shifts, propping himself up on one arm as the other seeks out the hard flesh of his erection, taking himself in hand and stroking, pushing, pulling, dragging himself closer to the edge.

But Castiel is having none of it.

He bats the hunter's hand away, wrapping his own lean grip about him instead even as he presses in, infinitely hotter and thicker than his fingers. For a moment Dean is content with the sensation of being filled. Of feeling the angel bottom out inside him, stretching him wide with the slick burn of his cock. He moans and he can feel Castiel pant against his back, lips hovering over the blade of his shoulder but never touching.

Then hes moving. Sliding back, flesh dragging and stroking before thrusting back in. It's not slow and gentle, but fast and hot and dirty. Alive as each glide in sparks new life, new color on the hunter's senses. The angel's hand joins in and Dean is lost, torn between pressing back into the girth of Castiel's cock or thrusting forward into the warm grip of his palm. His arms give out and the hunter's cheek is pressed into the old mattress, his mouth open in a silent moan as his eyes screw shut in pleasure, fingers fisting in the edges of the pillow some inches above him.

The room fills with the sound of flesh striking flesh in a lewd staccato beat that matches and mocks the rapid pulse of his heart as he pants against each stroke. It's all gasped air and sweat. The slide of skin and muscle, the bruising grip of fingers on his hips, sure to leave their mark in the morning. It's real, and hell but if he doesn't love every moment of it.

Dean is close, toeing the edge like a tightrope walker and all it takes is the sharp press of teeth against his shoulder to send him careening over, letting himself go with a moaned cry as his body jumps and writhes beneath the continuing motions of the angel above him, rocking forward on hands and knees with each consecutive stroke.  
A minute more. Harder, faster, deeper, and Castiel is coming undone with a hoarse moan, hips shuddering their release, heat spreading itself deep within the hunter as he grinds back, greedy and demanding of every pulse, every aftershock of pleasure to wrack the angel's body.

The room goes quiet again, their presence marked only by the heavy pants and sighs as the angel gingerly slides out and flops bonelessly down on the bed beside him as Dean collapses forward entirely, relieved of the need to hold himself up, not that he'd done a spectacular job in the first place.

Theres another moment of silence as they collect themselves, but this one is soft, not so much peaceful as appreciative, content, and Dean is the first to roll to his side, reaching out to brush the angel's shoulder with his hand. As if activated on touch Castiel turns into it, burrowing his way against the hunter's chest, tucking his head beneath the other's chin and pressing his nose into the dip of his collarbones. Dean tangles their legs, ignoring every comment he's ever made about not cuddling, because fuck that... he wants to touch and be touched. He wants to feel the heat of the angel's sated body against his own. To know that he did this.

"Hey Cas."

And they're the first words the room has heard besides the tv in over two hours since Dean called Sam to check up on how his case was going a few towns over.

The angel shifts and looks up, and this time it is Cas and not Castiel looking back. His eyes are the same deep, endless blue they always are, but they're brighter if heavy with sleep and replete with pleasure. Dean smirks and Cas huffs a sigh before tucking his nose back under the hunter's chin.

"Nice to have you back."


End file.
